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SKETCH 



OF 



M'DONALD CLARKE. 



"the mad poet." 



By CLARK JILLSON. 










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SKETCH 



OF 



M'DONALD CLAEKE. 



'THE MAD POET. 



"men call me mad — 'tis a wonder I AM NOT." 



By CLARK JILLSON. 



WORCESTER : 
PRTVATELT PRINTED, FIFTY COPIES. 

1878. 



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"It has long been the fashion to abuse me — I don't expect 
much else among mortals. It cannot curdle my temper, nor 
cover my memory with thorns. If I could win the good wish- 
es of a few noiseless names — interest one in my welfare, I 
should be quite contented with a very low rank on the rolls 
of the present. Posterity will put us in oiu- proper places. 

M'D. C. 



M'DONAID CLzVRKE. 



—--^^'3^4'^ 



WEAR tlie clo?e of the last century, there was 
Mi standing in New London, Connecticut, a dilap- 
^ idated old house, occupied by one Captain 
Clarke, a seafaring man, and his wife. 

In this house, on the 18th day of June, 1798, 
the subject of this sketch was born. He was an 
only son, a frail and sensitive child, but the idol 
of an affectionate mother, who watched over him 
in his early years with the most tender fidelity. 

His rights were constantly being invaded by 
his playmates, who were always ready to take 
advantage of his physical delicacy, or \70und by 
vulgar words, his sensitive nature ; and it was no 
uncommon thing for him to leave his associates in 
disgust at their rudeness, and take shelter in his 
mother's arms. 



On one of these occasions she made to him the 
following remarks : — 

"My poor child, you arc in a, world where an affectionate 
nature will be sadly disappointed, if it expects to be fondled 
with kisses." 

His mother died at sea when he was but twelve 
years old, and was buried beneath the stormy 
flood, without coffin, shroud or funeral rite. 

In speaking of the time when his mother last 
sailed from the port of New London, he says : — 

"I watched the ship-lights, long and late ; 
When I could see them no more, for tears, 
I tm-ned drooping away, 
And felt — that mine were darkening years." 

He alludes to the return of the vessel in which 
she sailed, as follows : — 

"I saw the Log Book of the ship. 
When it came back from its stormy trip, — 
There was scrawl'd on a dirty leaf. 
As if by one who knew not grief — 

Died, at Sea, of consumption, 

Ann M' Donald, 

The Captain's Wife. 

Nov. 27th, 1810." 

This frail and delicate boy, so unfit for the stern 
purposes of life, went out alone to struggle with 
selfishness, without the first q^ualification for the- 
task he had undertaken. 



On the IStli day of August, 1819, at the age of 
twenty-one, he first appeared on Broadway in 
New York, and in that city his future life-work 
was performed. His social nature led him to seek 
the companionship of those of similar tastes to his 
own, but such persons were not very plenty in the 
great city ; and when disappointment and reverses 
came to blight his happiness, no kind mother with 
tearful eye stood ready to share his sorrow. 

Being a stranger, and a peculiar one at that, 
without wealth or influence, his prospect for be- 
coming acquainted with persons of respectibility 
of his own age, was not flattering. 

At length his affections were placed upon a 
young actress, who responded to his generous na- 
ture with the most ardent devotion. Her mother, 
not pleased with his prospects in life, forbade their 
marriage ; but the two kindred spirits could not 
thus be separated, and they were soon married in 
spite of maternal authority. This female demon 
was not satisfied to let them live quietly and hap- 
pily together, but sought out their place of abode, 
and at midnight took her daughter away, declar- 
ing she should never live with Clarke another 
hour. They soon met again, but being pennyless, 
were often obliged to seek repose with no shelter 
except the starry dome above. 

Through the influence of this inhuman mother, 
they were again separated, never more to meet 



on earth. In conse(|uence of this sad event the 
noble spirit of the young jDoet was crushed, and 
reason no h)nger sat undisturbed upon her jiccus- 
tomed throne. He wandered up and down the 
principal thoroughfare of New York, friendless 
and alone, more desolate than before he had 
known his lost wife. 

Thus, a young man of brilliant intellect, and as 
pure a heart as ever beat within a human breast, 
was doomed to suffer the most malignant abuse. 

Ere long he manifested strong symptoms of in- 
sanity, and was immediately conveyed to the Asy- 
lum on Blackwell's Island, where he remained for 
a short time. His death occurred on the 5th day 
of March, 1842, under the most melancholy cir- 
cumstances. He was found by a policeman late 
at night in a destitute condition, and was placed 
in a cell in the city prison, where he was found 
dead in the morning, drowned by the How of water 
from an open faucet. 

In accordance with his own request, he was 
buried near Sylvan Lake, in Greenwood Cemetery, 

"Where flowers will bloom in May, 
Where birds will love to sing." 

His monument is plain and humble, but the 
inscription is truthful and pathetic. It will not 
fail to moisten the eye of many a wanderer who 
may chance to look upon this humble stone. 



The inscription tells the story of his life in a 
single word, as follows : — 

"Poor M'Donald Clarke." 

Much of his poetry is strikingly original, and 
contains some of the most beautiful expressions ; 
and his social nature had such control of the en- 
tire man as to be traced in all his writings. 

The following may be quoted as a specimen : — 

"A fair — an unforgotten girl — 
The chosen of my childish days, 
With brow o'er which soft ringlets curl, 
Smiles, from her grave, upon my gaze. 

Again I see the old arm chair. 
Where many a summer night I've knelt ; 
The rounded cheek that rested there. 
The sparkhng eyes that seemed to melt." 

As a general thing he paid but little regard to 
the rules of poetical composition, but seems to 
have written from impulse ; consequently many 
of his poems reached the jDublic in an unfinished 
condition, and yet they contain an occasional gem 
like the following beautiful lines : — 

"Now twilight lets her curtain down. 
And pins it with a star." 

In his poem entitled "Spring," which is an ill 
constructed piece of composition, full of odd ex- 
pressions, extending entirely beyond all poetic 



6 

license, may be found one of the most beautiful 
lines ever written in the English language — 

"God bless the warm blue eyes of Spring." 

On one occasion he was sneeringly alluded to by 
a reviewer, who used the word zigzag in reference 
to brains. Clarke called at the office of the paper 
in which it was published, asking permission to 
reply, which was granted, on condition that he 
would occupy only four lines. He made a reply 
in the following words: — 

"I will tell Johnny , in the way of a laugh, 

Since he's dragged my name into his pen-and-ink scrawl, 

That most people think it is better by half 

To have brains that are '-zigzag' than no brains at all." 

In his poem entitled "Sabbath Evening" may be 
found the following lines which, show the sweet 
simplicity and devotion of their author : — 

"I feel the happier all the week, 
If my foot has pressed the sacred aisle ; 
The pillow seems softer to my cheek ; 
I sink to slumber with a smile ; 
With sinful passions cease to fight, 
And sweetly dream on Sunday night." 

Had this child of genius been favored with 
proper treatment in his early years, he would un- 
doubtedly have been one of the brightest stars in 
America's constellation of poets. But his entire 



life was a struggle for existence, which had a ten- 
dency to crush out his finer feeHngs, and deprive 
him of every opportunity and advantage which 
others, less worthy, were permitted to enjoy. 

When he was so situated as to be able to pro- 
mote the happiness of another in the least degree, 
he was happy himself; and on many occasions he 
has been known to share his last farthing with a 
more needy brother. 

Mrs. Child speaks of him as one of the purest 
hearted and most affectionate of beings, "Simple 
and temperate in all his habits ; and in his deepest 
poverty he always kej)t up the neat appearance 
of a gentleman." 

He died at the age of forty-four, expressing the 
desire to be buried by the side of children. He 
said "Four things I am sure there will be in Hea- 
ven — music, flowers, pure air, and plenty of little 
children." 

In 1836 the Poems of M'Donald Clarke were 
published in a volume of two hundred and eighty 
eight pages. It contains a fine portrait of the 
author, whose beautiful features are at once im- 
pressed upon the mind, and there forever fixed, 
like the charm of an enchanted vision. 

In speaking of social life, he says : — 

"Marriage can alone soothe the \ailgar iritations of business, 
and reconcile man to his destiny. It is a poet's only hope of 
usefulness. The heart must be at rest, before the mind, like 



8 



a quiet lake under an unclouded evening of summer, can 
reflect the solemn starlight, and the splendid mysteries 
of heaven." 

His j)oems are full of allusions to the memory 
of his mother, and in his introductory remarks he 
says with much ajjparant feeling : — 

"I've suffered in haughty' silence undeserved neglect, and 
often hear my dear dead Mother's solemn voice tolling thro' 
my dreams, telling me io fight vaj wa^- through ungenerous 
obstacles that burden my soul." 

His preface closes with the following words : — 

"If the life of my poetr}' is wholesome, it will breathe after 
the wild spirit that inspired it has been sobered at the terrible 
tribunal of Eternity, and the weak hand that traced it, long 
wasted to ashes." 

But all these beautiful traits of character, his 
pure motives, his blameless life, his genius and 
his affectionate nature, were not appreciated by 
the people, and he was allowed to die neglected, 
and almost unknown to the literary world, except 
as "The Mad Foet of New York:' 




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